


Stolen Property

by Dawn Cunningham (Delta_Dawn)



Series: Highlander stories with Tessa [21]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-14 23:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7194401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delta_Dawn/pseuds/Dawn%20Cunningham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When two men come to rob the antique store, they leave with more than just antiques (plot by Linda Hutcheson) - Originally published in Highland Blades 3</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stolen Property

Stolen Property by Dawn Cunningham and Linda Hutcheson 

Disclaimers:

Duncan, Richie, and Tessa belong to Rysher. I'm just borrowing them and not getting paid for it.

Do not post or publish this story anywhere else, without my express permission. Feel free to share it with others as long as the disclaimers remain intact. 

This story was first published in Highland Blades 3. It takes place early in the first season. The story came about when Linda gave me a story plot when we met at Mediawest. I went back home and started writing. Linda offered suggestions throughout the story and this is the final result.

*****************************************

Stolen Property by Dawn Cunningham and Linda Hutcheson

It just wasn't fair.

Richie Ryan stood in the open door of the antique store, scowling at the bright sunshine beaming down. He never got a break. On *his* day off, it had rained the whole day. Now here he was, minding the store on his own while Tessa and Mac were driving around in the T-bird enjoying the nice weather. He gave a deep sigh and went back inside, shutting the door behind him.

He looked around the antique store. A part of him still couldn't believe that he was really here and that Mac had decided that he could handle the store by himself for the first time. After all, only six weeks had gone by since he had tried to break into the store and rip them off.

Richie knew that this was a major turning point in his relationship with Mac and Tessa. He was pretty sure that Tessa still didn't trust him but she had wanted to go to the Halenbeck estate auction with Duncan--especially since they would have to stay overnight. She had planned to shut the store down for the day but Mac had decided that Richie could run it by himself. After all, it was the slow time of the year--tourist season was over and the holiday season hadn't started yet. Of course, that hadn't stopped the Highlander from delivering a fifteen minute lecture about Richie's responsibilities for the store before he had climbed in the car with Tessa and taken off down the road.

Richie shot one more glance back at the bright sunny day outside. No one would ever know if he closed the store down early and took advantage of the nice weather. He could just tell Mac and Tessa that nobody had come by--after all they only had a dozen customers the whole week. Knowing his luck, though, that nosy Mr. Giles who owned the art gallery across the street would blab it to Mac and Tessa just as soon as they came home. Mr. Giles had seen Richie breaking into the antique store and had been the one who called the cops that night. He had made it quite clear to Mac and Tessa that taking Richie in would be a big mistake and they would regret it.

Richie knew that it was important that nothing go wrong today. He wanted to make sure that nothing got broken, lost or misplaced. Not like a few weeks ago when he had accidentally replaced the Faberge egg in the wrong display cabinet. Tessa had made such a fuss when she hadn't seen it where it was usually kept. She had probably thought he had stolen it--even if she'd never accused him of anything.

Richie liked it here and he wanted to stay. For the first time in a long while, he was getting regular meals and had a roof over his bed that didn't leak. For that matter, he had a bed, too--something else that had been hard to come by. Granted, he wasn't too thrilled about being around a guy who carried a sword and used it to chop people's heads off. But if he did a good job today, maybe they would ease up and start trusting him more. What he wouldn't give to see their faces if he could show them a long list of sales for today.

With a deep sigh, Richie picked up the spray bottle of glass cleaner and a rag and started removing fingerprints from the display cabinets.

*****

David Brant pulled his car up in front of the next antique store on his list. MacLeod and Noel Antiques. Well, it didn't look like much from the outside--but sometimes those were the best stores. At least they didn't have any tacky flags flying in front of their window like the last store did. He was beginning to doubt that there were any *nice* antique stores in town. He wasn't interested in what most people called antiques but were really collectibles. He wanted genuine antiques--the kind that would bring him a huge profit.

Stepping out of his car, he tugged at his tailored suit jacket to make sure that it was hanging properly. With a frown, he picked a small piece of lint off the dark blue material before smoothing down the lapel. As he walked to the front door, he could see his reflection in the plate glass window. He paused for a moment and took stock of himself.

Six foot two, well built, his suit hinted at a strongly muscled body. Brown wavy hair above dark brown eyes--eyes that made him look older than the thirty-two years that his face showed. Eyes that showed hidden pain and hardship. Eyes that Denise had always claimed would twinkle when he laughed and glitter when he got mad. He knew that it only took one glare at an employee to reduce them to silence.

Shaking his head, he opened the door to the store. Walking inside, he felt something... Almost as if....

"Hi. Can I help you with something?"

David stared, in shock, at the teenager who had come out of what appeared to be the office. "Riley?" he muttered in disbelief.

The youth frowned for a moment. "Sorry, but the name is Richie... Richie Ryan. Can I help you?" he asked again.

"No, I'm the one who's sorry. It's just that you remind me of someone I used to know. It just surprised me, that's all. I'd like to take a look around if you don't mind."

"Help yourself," Richie replied with a friendly smile. "If you have any questions, just holler."

David roamed around the store, jotting down notes as he went. Half of his attention was on the antiques but the other half kept drifting back to the teenager. The resemblance to his dead son, Riley, was amazing. There was something else about the youth that kept drawing his attention but he couldn't put his finger on it. Then it dawned on him. Richie was putting out a barely perceptible buzz. He must be a pre-Immortal. No wonder his nerves were on edge.

"Excuse me," David called to the youth. He watched the teenager practically bounce across the room. He reminded him of a puppy dog--eager for attention. "I'd like to look at this piece a little closer." He pointed to the Faberge egg.

"Sure thing," Richie replied as he unlocked the cabinet and set the egg on the top of the glass case.

David watched as the youth described the egg. Just like Riley, the teenager used his hands as he talked. He had often teased his son, telling Riley he wouldn't be able to speak if his hands were tied together.

When Richie had finished his somewhat inaccurate spiel, David smiled at him indulgently. "Well, it's obvious that you know the antique business," he said, watching the boy preen under the false flattery. "Your parents must be really proud of you."

The beaming smile vanished from the youth's face. "I don't have any parents," Richie finally muttered.

"I'm sorry. I just assumed that you grew up in the business, being so knowledgeable and all."

"Actually, I'm just learning it. I've only been here six weeks."

"Well then, you learn very quickly. Have you been left to run the store *all* by yourself--or are the owners due back soon?" David gently pumped the youth for information. The boy would probably never realize just how much he was giving away. Brant looked over in annoyance as the front door to the shop opened. He noticed a pained expression cross Richie's face at the sight of the short, rotund man that came in.

"Excuse me for a moment," Richie said before leaving to confront the intruder.

David strolled over, ostensibly looking at other antiques, and listened intently to the conversation.

"Can I help you with something, Mr. Giles?" Richie asked.

"I thought I'd check and make sure everything was okay over here. Especially since Duncan and Tessa aren't here."

Richie's cheeks turned pink and he looked like he was struggling to control anger. "Everything's fine. I haven't stolen anything yet, Mr. Giles. Now if you don't mind, I have a customer."

"Hmmmph. Well, I just wanted to let you know that I'm keeping an eye on things. You may have fooled Duncan and Tessa but you haven't fooled me." With that, Mr. Giles spun on his heel and left the store.

"Who was that annoying man?" David asked.

"Oh, he owns the art gallery across the street and likes to stick his nose in where it's not wanted."

"Don't you just hate people like that?"

"Yeah," Richie muttered. With obvious effort, he pasted a smile back on his face. "Was there anything else I could show you?"

"No, I think I've seen everything that I want to. I need to check with some of my clients but I think we will be able to do some business here. How late are you open today?"

"Till four."

"Excellent. I will send a couple of employees back later today to pick up the items that my clients decide on, if that's all right?"

"I'll be here," Richie promised.

"Thank you for your help. It's been nice talking to you." David headed for the front door. Once he was certain that Richie was no longer watching, he headed across the street to the art gallery.

Thirty minutes later, David climbed in his car and drove away. Mr. Giles had been a fountain of information, including the fact that Richie Ryan had been caught trying to rob the antique store. The couple who owned the store had taken him in shortly after that. How convenient that they lived behind the store too. That would make his plan so much easier. David finished checking out the rest of the stores on his list. He found another promising one that would also be suitable. Once back at his hotel, he used his cellular phone to contact two of his employees. They arranged a meeting in a nearby park for later in the afternoon. Reaching for a pad of paper, he started a list of things for his men to pick up.

The first item on it was the most unusual item of all.

*****

Richie looked at the clock in disgust. The day had dragged by with very few customers showing up, although he had managed to make some sales, thanks to a van full of tourists that had stopped by. Every glass and wood surface in the shop gleamed brightly from his diligent cleaning that had kept him occupied most of the day. He'd even polished the crystal that always hung on a thin cord around his neck. It had been a present from Angie years ago, and he thought of it as his good luck charm.

He kept thinking about the man from this morning. It wasn't until after he left that Richie realized that he had never been told his name so there was no way for Mac to contact him later. As for his men showing up--there were only fifteen minutes left before closing.

So much for his making a big sale to impress Mac and Tessa.

He heard the front door open and went out into the main store. There he saw two very big, very muscular men looking around. They didn't look like the people who usually shopped here and for a moment he felt a flash of alarm. He swallowed hard and plastered a smile on his face. "Can I help you?"

One of the men pulled a list from his pocket. "Our boss sent us here to pick up some things. First, he wants a Faberge egg..."

For the next ten minutes, the men kept Richie busy scurrying around the store fetching items. Mentally, he was rubbing his hands in glee. This was going to be the biggest sale the store had ever had. Finally, all the items were assembled and Richie carefully wrote everything down on a sales pad before wrapping the items securely and placing them in boxes he had fetched from the store room.

"Will that be cash, check or charge?" Richie asked as he tucked the last piece into the box. These two big guys looked like they wouldn't have any problems carrying around large sums of money.

"None of the above."

Richie looked up at the man who had just spoken and saw a gun pointed directly at him. "No problem, man. Everything's cool. Take whatever you want. I won't stop you." He slowly started backing towards the office, figuring that he could make a dash for the back door.

"That's right, you won't." A deep voice behind him boomed.

The teenager spun around to find the other goon behind him. As the man reached for his shirt, Richie tried to dash around him only to feel a sharp tug. He realized that the guy had managed to grab the cord around his neck. So much for good luck charms. In sheer desperation, he lurched to the side, trying to get free and felt the cord break but not before it had dug into his skin. Thrown off balance by the sudden release, Richie crashed to the floor, all the air driven from his lungs. He heard the crystal fall to the floor before strong hands gripped his arms and yanked him back to his feet.

"Listen up, kid. You try anything else like that and we'll make sure you regret it."

Richie gasped in pain as one of his arms was twisted sharply behind him. "Okay, okay, I'll do whatever you want."

Richie watched in growing horror as the man in front of him slipped on gloves before he crossed to the front door, locked it and placed the closed sign in the windows. Frantically, the youth tried to figure some way out of his predicament. What he wouldn't give to see Mr. Giles poking his nose into the shop this very moment.

"All right. Next stop is your bedroom. You need to pack your clothes--you're going on a trip."

"What do you mean? I'm not going..." A sharp slap across his face silenced his words. Obedient once again, Richie led the two men to the living quarters and into his bedroom. One of the goons kept an iron tight grip on his arm the whole way. He knew that he would have bruises there tomorrow.

If he was still alive tomorrow.

Once in his room, Richie was released. The teenager shot a quick glance at the door but one of the men blocked the exit. There was no way out.

"Pack your clothes and anything else you want. You won't be coming back here again."

Richie followed the instructions while he tried to keep the overwhelming fear at bay. What had they meant--he wouldn't be coming back here? What could they be planning for him? He'd been on the streets long enough to know about some of the more sordid things that could happen to teenagers who got mixed up in the wrong company. He'd always taken pride in staying out of those kinds of situations.

These last six weeks had obviously been a cruel trick of fate. Make him think that he had a chance to improve his life only to have the rug harshly pulled out from under him. He strongly doubted that Mac or Tessa would spend much time looking for him--even if he did have 'potential' as they had told him when they took him in. If they did look, the only possible person who might know anything was Mr. Giles and he would probably cheer when he heard that Richie was gone.

Once his duffel bag had been packed, Richie slipped his coat on before being escorted back to Tessa's workshop where his hands were cuffed behind his back. When the back door was opened, he was surprised to see a van already parked by it. One of the men glanced quickly in both directions before roughly pushing Richie out the door and into the back of the van. When he was seated on the floor, his ankles were tied together and he could only sit and watch helplessly while his bag and the boxes of antiques from the shop were placed in the van with him.

The two men climbed in the front of the van, started the engine and pulled out of the alley. Richie desperately wanted to ask where they were taking him, but at the same time, he didn't really want to know. He figured he would find out soon enough.

*****

David Brant paced back and forth across the hangar floor. His men were due back any moment now, if nothing had gone wrong. He felt a stir of excitement as he thought about Richie Ryan. It would be like having his son back again. A son that would never die. Not like his wife, Denise, or his adopted son, Riley.

David had died for the first time 146 years ago and after his teacher had sent him on his way, he had been alone. Years and decades of loneliness. And then he had met Denise. She had been a fair-haired temptress in the guise of a waitress down on her luck. From the first moment he met her, he wanted to take care of her. That had been twenty years ago. The fact that she was pregnant had only been a plus in his book. When she gave birth to Riley, it had been the happiest day of his life.

Despite all of his precautions, Denise had been ripped away from him ten years ago--a victim of cancer. A major hole opened in his life and he tried to fill it by devoting even more time to his son. Seven years later, Riley had left him--this time a victim of suicide. Now he was alone again--but not for long.

Hearing a horn honk, he watched as two of his other employees opened the hangar doors far enough to let the van drive through. He waited where he was and the driver of the van, Steve Mitchell, came over to talk to him.

"Did everything go as planned?" David questioned.

"Like clockwork. We did just what you ordered. Didn't touch anything in the shop. Brought the kid and his clothes."

"Fine. You know what to do with the antiques?"

Mitchell nodded. "What about the kid?"

"Bring him here. I want to explain some things to him. And tell the men to hit the other store tomorrow night."

Moments later, Mitchell pulled a reluctant Richie from the van and brought him over.

"Hello, Richie. I hope my men weren't too harsh with you."

"Listen, man. I won't say anything. Just let me go and everything will be cool. I'll tell the cops that two masked men held up the shop. Nobody will come looking for you."

David was impressed. He had to credit the kid with guts. Most teenagers would be crying by now but Richie still had enough wits about him to try to talk his way out of his current situation. "I'm afraid that you can't go back. In case you don't realize it, my men never touched anything in the shop. With your previous record, the police will assume that you ripped off the store. Especially when they discover your clothes gone. By this time tomorrow, you'll be a wanted felon. And you're not a juvenile anymore--are you? I'm your only chance to get away from here."

David just smiled at Richie's stunned look. "Put him on the plane," he ordered.

Richie didn't resist as the goon hauled him to the small private plane. His mind was too busy spinning around. It had never occurred to him, until now, that he would be blamed for the robbery. In fact, his fingerprints would probably be the only ones found--thanks to his polishing efforts that afternoon. He was doomed. Nobody--not even MacLeod--would believe he was innocent. Maybe it would be better to just go along with these guys and try to get away later. That way he would, hopefully, be a long way away from a vengeful, sword-toting Highlander.

Richie felt the handcuff being released from his left wrist before he was pushed down into a seat. The handcuff was then secured to the right arm rest. He brushed the guy's hands aside and managed to fasten his own seat belt although it wasn't easy.

Richie watched as the henchman left the airplane. The man that had first come to the shop that morning climbed into the plane and went to the back. Richie craned his head around trying to see what he was doing but his view was blocked. Moments later the man came back carrying two drinks. He gave one of them to Richie before taking the seat across the aisle.

"Who are you?" Richie managed to ask as he stared at the drink in his hand. "And what do you want with me?"

"My apologies. I never did introduce myself, did I? My name is David Brant. I'm taking you back home with me to Chicago. You will be treated well as long as you cooperate. Once there, I will start training you to prepare you for your future."

"What future? Learning how to rob people? I already know how to do that." Richie took a quick sip of his drink. When he didn't taste anything funny, he took a longer gulp of it.

Brant just smiled indulgently. "No. You have a much brighter future in store for you, but you must learn many things before you will find out what it is, Riley."

"My name's Richie!"

"Of course, my mistake. By the way, this is Steve Mitchell." Brant waved at the muscle-bound man who had brought Richie on board the plane. "He's my right hand man. Normally, he doesn't participate in the robbery phase of my operation, but I wanted him to be there to ensure that you weren't hurt in the process."

"Gee, thanks... I think." Richie watched as Mitchell closed the door to the plane. He quickly drained his glass to hide his panic at the thought of flying for the first time--especially in such a small plane.

Brant took the glass from him and returned it to the back of the plane before resuming his seat. "Why don't you sit back and relax, Richie."

Richie felt funny--like he couldn't think any more. He struggled to pay attention to what was happening around him, but his mind kept wandering around and couldn't seem to focus on any one thing.

Brant must have noticed something, because Richie saw him smile again.

"There's nothing to worry about. I gave you a sedative in your drink. It should keep you very calm and relaxed. Don't try to fight it."

Richie knew he should be worried about something, but couldn't remember what. He let his eyes drift shut and he faded off to sleep.

****

"Richie... Richie, wake up." Richie felt a hand jostle his shoulder.

"Wha..." he mumbled.

"It's time to wake up, Richie. We're here."

Richie managed to keep his eyes open long enough to notice that the plane was still on the ground. "Haven't left yet."

"No. You slept through the whole trip. Come on, Richie. I want you to walk to my car with me."

"'Kay," Richie mumbled. Somehow he managed to get to his feet. He felt hands steadying him and he looked up to see Mitchell standing by him. He still couldn't seem to make his mind function the way it should, but at least he was moving. If it hadn't been for Mitchell's restraining hands, Richie would have fallen down the airplane stairs. The ten paces to the waiting limousine seemed like a mile but somehow the teenager managed to climb into the car without any mishaps. He laid his head back on the seat and fell asleep again.

The next time he woke, the car was pulling through a tall set of iron gates. He watched numbly as they closed automatically behind the car. It seemed to take forever before the house came into view, but he couldn't decide if that was because it was a great distance or whether it was because his mind wasn't functioning properly. He felt a little more alert now, but his brain still felt like it was encased in cotton.

The car pulled to a stop and everyone got out. David took Richie by the arm and led him into the house. The disoriented boy got a quick glimpse of a huge foyer before he was pulled towards a curving stairway. It took all of his concentration to climb the stairs. A long hallway appeared in front of him and he felt himself pulled along it until they came to a door, halfway down.

"This is your room now, Richie."

The door opened and Richie wandered into the room.

"Why don't you lie down and go to sleep again. You'll feel much better in the morning."

"'Kay," Richie mumbled again before practically crawling onto the bed and collapsing. He felt hands pulling off his shoes and then his coat and he tried to tell himself that he should be doing something, but his mind just wandered away. The hands moved him around and he felt the covers pulled out from underneath him and then pulled over him. His last waking thought was that Tessa was going to be mad that he had slept in his clothes again.

Sometime later, the hands came back and urged him to a sitting position. A glass was pressed up against his lips and he drank thirstily. The hands pushed him back down to the pillows and before he had time to think about anything, his consciousness drifted away again.

****

Richie woke slowly, annoyed by the sunbeams shining on his face. It didn't make any sense. The sun came into his bedroom in the afternoons, not in the morning. Then it all came flooding back to him and he bolted upright in the bed. A quick glance down showed that he still had all of his clothes on, a fact he found strangely comforting. He staggered to his feet and went to the window. Pulling aside the sheer curtains, he discovered bars across the window. A quick check of the window on the other side of the room revealed the same thing.

He looked around the room. At first appearance, it seemed like a teenager's dream come true. A TV and VCR stood on a stand in one corner. On a nearby desk was a computer setup that would make a computer geek drool. A pinball machine stood against another wall. Next to it was a stereo and CD player with shelves filled with CDs above it. He took a quick glance through them and found nothing newer than three years ago.

He continued his exploration. One door led to a walk-in closet that was bigger than some of the bedrooms he had shared with other boys at a few of the foster homes he'd lived in. The closet was filled with clothes and shoes, as were all the dresser drawers. Another door led to a bathroom. Richie went to the door that he assumed led out of the room. The handle turned easily under his hand but the door refused to budge.

Richie started pounding on the door. "Hey! Someone let me outta here!"

After what seemed like an eternity, Richie heard a buzzing noise come from the door and he backed up. The door swung open to reveal David Brant standing on the other side.

"Good morning, Richie. Did you sleep well?"

"I didn't have much choice, did I? You drugged me!" Richie accused him.

David shrugged. "I thought it would make the transition easier on you. Why don't you take a shower and change your clothes and then we'll see about getting you some breakfast."

"I don't see my bag anywhere. How can I change?"

"There's a whole closet full of clothes there. You're still about the same size. They should fit. When you're ready, press the buzzer on the nightstand and I will come back." David turned and left.

Richie tried the door again. It wasn't any surprise to find it locked. He kept thinking about the size comment. It didn't make any sense at all. With a sigh, he went into the closet and tried to find something to wear. Five minutes later, he was still searching. There didn't appear to be any jeans in the closet at all--just dress slacks. Most of the shirts had long flowing sleeves that were gathered at the wrists--not exactly his style. He finally picked out a pair of slacks and a sweater, along with a pair of boots that he had found. Anything was better than the loafers that filled the lower shelves of the closet.

Once he had showered, he debated putting his own clothes back on but decided not to aggravate Brant at this point. Maybe if he seemed cooperative, they would ease up and he could escape. Not that he knew where to go, but anywhere would be better than here. He pressed the button on the nightstand and waited to be released from his prison.

****

Duncan unlocked the back door that led into the workshop. "Shhh. You'll wake Richie up," he warned the giggling Tessa. The day away had been good for them. Neither of them had realized just how difficult it had been to get used to having another person around. Especially when that person was a hyperactive teenager.

"Who are you kidding? A herd of stampeding elephants wouldn't wake Richie up. Besides, it's almost 10:00--time for him to rise and shine."

Duncan carried the suitcase down to their bedroom. On the way back he lightly rapped on Richie's door. When no answer came, he cracked the door open and looked inside. Richie's bed was already made and there was no sign of the teenager. Puzzled at this unusual occurrence--especially on a Sunday--Duncan went out to the kitchen where Tessa was pouring them some orange juice.

"Richie's not in his room. I'll just go check the shop."

Several moments later, he returned. "Richie must have gone out. What happened? Did we run out of food?"

Tessa playfully slapped his arm. "Of course we didn't. Maybe he stayed out all night since we weren't here to watch him."

"You're probably right." Duncan frowned at the thought.

After eating a light breakfast, Tessa announced that she was going to find out what kind of damage Richie had done to the shop. Duncan trailed behind her, but stopped in the office. Inside the desk drawer, he found the daily sales ledger, filled out and sitting next to the cash box. Looking inside, he found the checks, charge slips and cash still in it. "How many times do I have to tell you," he muttered under his breath as he picked up the cash box, dialed the safe's combination and placed the box inside.

He took the sales ledger with him and went out to the shop, eyes quickly scanning the list. Not too many sales but more than he had expected. He found Tessa looking around at different cabinets with a frown on her face. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Richie's moved the Faberge egg again! But I can't find it anywhere."

"He didn't sell it," Duncan said, looking at the list in his hands.

"Did he sell the Dresden shepherdess figurine?"

Duncan checked the list again. "No." He started looking around and found even more items missing that weren't on the list. "Maybe he didn't finish filling out the sales for the day." They went back in the office, retrieved the cash box and totaled the money. It matched the sales ledger. Refusing to meet Tessa's eyes, Duncan headed for Richie's room. It didn't take long to determine that the majority of the youth's clothes were also missing.

Duncan found Tessa still sitting in the office, frowning at the sales ledger. "Richie's clothes are gone."

"So, it finally happened. We turned our backs and he ripped us off." Tessa jumped up from the chair and started pacing around the room.

"No, Tessa. I don't believe that. Richie wouldn't have stolen from us."

"Of course he did. He's probably halfway across the country by now. I'm going to call the police."

"They'll send him to prison, Tessa! He's not a juvenile any more."

"He should have thought of that *before* he stole from us." Tessa didn't like the thought of the smiling youth being sent to prison but he couldn't be allowed to get away with this. How could she have been so wrong? She really thought that Richie liked it here and had even started to become fond of the youth.

Ignoring Duncan's unspoken plea, she reached for the telephone.

"Tessa, wait a minute. If Richie was going to steal something, why didn't he take the cash? I know it's not much--only a little over two hundred dollars--but to Richie, that's a lot of money."

Tessa pulled her hand back from the phone while she thought over his words. "You're right, Duncan. It doesn't make sense."

"Maybe he found that someone had broken in and he fled because he thought we'd blame him," Duncan suggested.

"And he'd be right too," Tessa said, guilt flooding through her. "I guess I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions so fast. But we still need to contact the police." Tessa reached for the phone again.

Two hours later, Duncan paced back and forth in the office. He was ready to throw Sergeant Powell out the door. The police detective seemed unwilling to believe that Richie had not stolen the antiques himself.

"I warned you that this was going to happen when you refused to file charges against Ryan the last time," Powell said. "Now he's going to be doing some hard time."

"We don't think he did it," Duncan insisted. Tessa nodded in agreement from where she sat behind the desk.

"There's no sign of struggle. No sign of forced entry. How could you believe it was anyone else?"

Duncan slowly counted to ten. He knew that it looked bad, but Powell refused to have an open mind about it. Before he had a chance to say anything more, a technician from the crime lab came into the office.

"We have a clear set of prints on six different cabinets. I won't be able to tell for sure until I get back to the lab but they look like the same ones. And they're the only prints on those cabinets."

"Try to match them to a Richard 'Richie' Ryan. He has a juvie record."

"Of course his prints are going to be on the cabinets," Duncan argued. "He works here."

The technician shook his head. "If someone had opened the cabinets after Ryan had touched them, the fingerprints would have been smudged. These are some of the best prints I've ever seen. I think the glass had been recently cleaned." He pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket. "Do you recognize this?"

Tessa gasped. "That's Richie's crystal. He always wears it."

Duncan nodded. "Where did you find it?"

"It was on the floor under one of the cases. The cord is broken--it must have fallen off and he didn't notice it."

"This just makes me more convinced that Richie didn't do it. He would never leave his crystal behind," Duncan said with a frown.

Powell examined the bag. "It's a cheap piece of glass. Compared to the haul he got from the store, I wouldn't bother with this either."

"You don't understand," Tessa insisted. "It was a gift from a friend. He never went anywhere without it."

"Well, it's too early to say, but there's a stain on the cord," the technician said. "It might be blood."

Tessa gasped again and Duncan placed a calming hand on her shoulder. "There you go, Sergeant. There's your proof. They must have forced Richie to help. They may have taken him with them. He could be in trouble."

"So what you're telling me is that someone came in here, forced Ryan to pick out some of the best of your antiques, stole his clothes, and then took him along to keep him quiet. Somehow, I can't see that."

"Well, it also doesn't make sense that Richie would spend all day cleaning the shop--you can smell the wood polish and glass cleaner from here--close up for the day, pick out some antiques and take off," Duncan said. "I think Richie left on his own because he thought we would blame him."

"Maybe," Powell conceded. "But for now he's my number one suspect and I'm going to put a warrant out for his arrest. You *will* press charges this time, won't you? I'd hate to waste a lot of taxpayer's money just so Ryan can get off scot-free again."

Duncan nodded reluctantly. "If Richie stole the antiques, I'll press charges. But you're going to have to prove that he did it," he warned.

After escorting the sergeant to the front door, Duncan returned to the office and sat down on the desk corner facing Tessa.

"What do you think really happened, Duncan?"

"I still think that Richie ran away because he was afraid that he'd be blamed. I'll go check out his favorite haunts and see if I can find him before the police do."

"But what if the robbers took Richie with them?"

"Then why would they take his clothes? After all, Richie wasn't exactly the best dresser in town, you know."

Tessa smiled in relief. "Of course. Nothing else makes sense."

"Well, I guess we had better start an inventory check and find out exactly what is missing. The police and the insurance company will want to know everything." Duncan pulled Tessa to her feet.

"I'll do that, Duncan. Why don't you go find Richie."

"Are you sure?"

Tessa nodded. Duncan gave her a quick kiss before heading for the car.

****

Richie scowled across the table at Brant. He wished the guy would just leave him alone to eat in peace. But no. All through breakfast, Brant had kept harping at him. 'Sit up straight--keep your elbows off the table--don't gulp your milk.' The more he complained, the sloppier Richie got. He knew he was being childish, but it felt good.

Richie knew that his manners weren't as well polished as Mac's and Tessa's, but he also knew that he had improved since living with them. But *they* hadn't harped at him--he had learned it by watching their example.

"When you are finished, I'll give you a tour of the house," David said.

That got Richie's attention. The sooner he could scope out the place, the sooner he'd be out of here. "I'm done," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand just to see Brant's reaction. He wasn't disappointed.

"Use your napkin," David snapped. "That's what it's there for."

Richie obeyed and stood up to follow him out of the room.

"We'll start here," David said as he led Richie out to the foyer. "All of the doors--both inside and outside--lock electronically. Without a keycard you'll never be able to open them. All of the windows are constructed of the heaviest safety glass available--virtually unbreakable. Plus the downstairs windows have been sealed shut so that I can maintain the proper temperature and humidity levels to protect my paintings."

"What if the house catches fire? Won't we be trapped inside?" Richie still had nightmares occasionally about the night when the foster home he was staying at had caught fire--thanks to his foster father who'd fallen asleep in bed while smoking. Richie had been locked in his first floor bedroom and had been too young or maybe too scared to think about breaking the window. Even now, he could vividly recall the choking sensation as the room had filled with smoke. Thankfully, a neighbor had seen the fire and had broken the window from the outside to save the frightened child.

"Not to worry. I have the best Halon gas system installed. It should put out any fire before it has a chance to spread. It's the same kind that's used in a lot of computer centers around the country. At the same time all the doors will unlock automatically, allowing anyone inside to get out in time. So you have nothing to worry about."

"It sounds like you've thought of everything."

"I tried. Of course, should you somehow manage to get outside, the fence and gate are electrified. You'll get quite a jolt if you touch either of them. Not enough to kill you, but it will probably knock you out long enough for us to retrieve you. The grounds are filled with sensors and security cameras, so I doubt that you'll get that far anyway."

Richie got a sinking feeling in his stomach. It would be easier to break into Fort Knox than it would be to break out of here.

The tour continued and David introduced Richie to the various employees that worked for him--the housekeeper who lived there, and the two maids who came in during the day. "Don't think you can get any of them to help you escape. They know who pays their very generous salaries. However, they are here to see to your every need--within reason--so don't be afraid to ask them for anything you want."

After the tour was over, Richie went back to his bedroom and stood staring out the window in despair.

This house was like a dream come true. There was an indoor heated pool, a Jacuzzi, a sauna, a rec room complete with a pool table, a library, an exercise room filled with every imaginable workout machine, a private theater that would easily have held a dozen people, and a very small but devoted staff to take care of his and Brant's every want and desire. What more could he ask for?

So why wasn't he happy? Six weeks ago, he would have jumped at the chance to live here. Why did he keep thinking about Mac and Tessa, and worrying about whether they thought he had ripped them off? He didn't owe them anything just because they were the first people who had believed that he could be something better than he was.

And what *did* Brant want from him? The only ideas he could come up with made his stomach churn. The man would be in for a big surprise if he thought that Richie would cooperate in exchange for all these luxuries.

"Richie?" He heard a voice from the doorway. He turned around and saw Brant standing there. "You'll find some workout clothes in the dresser drawers--get changed and come down to the exercise room. It's time to start your training." Brant turned and walked away.

Richie started searching through drawers. "Great. Just what I need... another exercise nut like MacLeod."

Two hours later, every muscle in Richie's body burned from exhaustion. "No... more," he said in between gasping breaths. He didn't think he could move, let alone raise those weights again.

"Five more," David ordered from where he stood behind the weight bench.

"I can't!"

"Do it!"

Richie struggled to raise the barbell again. His arms shook with fatigue and he had visions of the weights crashing down and crushing him. He managed two more before his arms gave way but at the last moment Brant snatched the weights back to their stand.

"Well, you didn't do too badly for the first day," David conceded. "But there's room for improvement. I'll draw up a workout schedule for you to follow. Can you swim?"

Richie nodded, still trying to recover his breath from the grueling workout.

"Good. Starting tomorrow, you can do fifty laps before breakfast and build up from there. After breakfast, there will be weight training and in the afternoons we'll do martial arts training."

"No way, man! I'm not gonna do that!" Richie sat up on the weight bench.

David grabbed Richie by the hair and pulled his head back. "You'll do what I say, when I say it, or else!" he snarled.

"Sure, man, whatever you say." Richie winced as Brant pulled his head back even further.

"Just remember that. Now go get cleaned up. Lunch is in an hour." Brant stalked from the room, anger still radiating from his body.

Richie collapsed back on the bench and tried to calm his pounding heart. He *had* to get away from this madman.

*****

David bounced a pencil against his desktop as he thought about the day. Richie had no manners to speak of--it would take a lot of training to make him fit into polite society. The teenager's physical condition wasn't bad, but he was hopeless when it came to martial arts. Richie had been fairly cooperative so far and whenever he wasn't, a little show of force had changed his attitude.

The next thing he should do was to arrange for some tutors. Richie would find it much easier to survive as an Immortal if he knew more languages. Computer skills were also a requirement in this ever-changing world. Maybe some history and literature lessons would also be useful. He would have to find someone he could trust though. Preferably someone who had something to hide. He would set Mitchell on that tomorrow.

He also made a mental note to have Mitchell keep an eye on Richie's training whenever he wasn't around. Somehow he doubted that the teenager would do the full number of laps or exercises unless someone was there to watch him. And speaking of watching him... David touched a switch on a box sitting on his desk. A panel of the wall slid up, revealing a monitor. He pulled the keyboard drawer out and hit a few keys.

The monitor lit up and showed Richie's bedroom. The youth wasn't there. David frowned and started trying other rooms in the house. Few people had any idea that there were cameras covering every room of the house. His security company had made certain that they were well disguised. They were very useful in documenting embarrassing moments or indiscreet conversations. He finally located the teenager sitting in the Jacuzzi. Well, that made sense. Richie was probably starting to hurt by now from his workout.

David shut the system down and picked up his wife's picture from his desk. "What should I do, Denise? How old should I let Riley get before I make him Immortal? If I do it too soon, he won't have a chance in the game. But if I wait too long, he might try to take my head." He sighed and put the picture down before settling in to do some work.

When he finally emerged from his office, he practically ran into the teenager. "Oh, Richie, there you are. I forgot to tell you that dinner is at 7:00." David started to walk away but stopped and looked back at the youth. "And we always dress for dinner, too."

Richie gave him a puzzled look. "Of course. Who doesn't?"

"Fine. I'll see you there."

****

David came down early for his pre-dinner drink. He was looking forward to seeing Richie in a tuxedo. He took the martini that Mitchell had prepared for him and settled into an easy chair by the window. Ten minutes later, Richie came into the room, still wearing the casual clothes he had put on earlier that day.

"What's the meaning of this?" David said with a frown. "I told you we dressed for dinner."

"What? I *am* dressed." Richie gave him a confused look.

David sighed and rubbed his forehead with his hand. "I meant we dressed *formally*. You'll have to go change."

"What?! I'm supposed to wear a penguin suit just to eat dinner?"

"It's called a tuxedo and the answer is yes. Now if you want dinner tonight, I suggest you go back to your room and change. You have ten minutes. Mitchell, go with him and make sure that he gets it right."

All through dinner, Richie fidgeted constantly, often running a finger along his collar as if it were choking him. David wanted to yell at him to sit still but decided that could wait until another night. Tonight, he concentrated on trying to teach Richie the proper utensil to use.

With dinner over, David told Richie that he could do whatever he wanted for the rest of the evening. "Since you have been so well behaved today, I won't lock you up tonight. Don't make me regret doing that. And please remember that you need to do fifty laps in the pool before breakfast, which is served at 8:00. Don't be late or you won't get any."

"Why are you doing this to me?" Richie's voice quavered.

"It's for your own good. Some day you'll thank me for this."

Richie just looked at him in disbelief before leaving the room.

As he slowly climbed the stairs, Richie tried to ignore the aches and pains that rippled through his body. If the workout hadn't been enough, he had spent two hours this afternoon being pummeled by a quarterstaff and then been thrown around on the floor as Brant had demonstrated different martial arts techniques.

The soaking in the Jacuzzi had helped for a while and Richie had snooped around the house. If he could get his hands on a phone, he could call Mac and let him know what really happened. But he hadn't been able to find any. He'd seen phone jacks in several rooms but there had been no sign of the phone itself. Apparently, someone had made sure that they were all removed. The only room he hadn't been able to check out was Brant's study. It had been a close call because the door had started to open just as Richie had reached for the door knob.

Arriving at his door, Richie took the time to examine the electronic panel. There wasn't much to it--just a slot to insert a keycard and two lights. The green light was on. That must mean the door was unlocked. The front door had a red light showing instead. If he had some tools, he might have been able to get around the lock. Or maybe he could swipe a keycard from one of the employees. He went inside and found the housekeeper moving around the room. Mrs. Mitchell, Steve's mother, was in her fifties, skinny as a broom stick, and wore her gray hair in a bun.

"Uh... hi, Mrs. Mitchell." Richie tried to paste a smile on his face. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to pick up your dirty clothes and towels. Is there anything that you need?"

"What I'd really like are some jeans and T-shirts to wear. Would that be possible?"

"Mr. Brant would never allow jeans in the house. He said they weren't appropriate attire. I doubt he will let you wear them."

"Okay. What happened to the bag I packed? There were some other things in there that I wanted. I promise I won't wear any of the clothes but I'd just feel better knowing that I had my stuff." Richie worked harder on his smile this time and was rewarded by an answering smile.

"That seems reasonable. I'll have Steve bring it up when I go back downstairs."

Richie didn't want to take the chance that Mitchell would refuse. "I can come down and get it. There's no reason to disturb Mitch... I mean Steve."

"How thoughtful of you. You're a very nice boy. I think we are going to get along just fine."

"Let me just change first." Richie grabbed some clothes from the closet and headed for the bathroom. When he came back out, he found the bedcovers turned back and a pair of silk pajamas resting on the bed. "Uh... thanks, Mrs. Mitchell, but you didn't have to..."

"It's my job. Here, I'll take the tuxedo."

"So, tell me, Mrs. Mitchell... whose room was this?"

Mrs. Mitchell looked around for a moment as if to check to see if anyone else was nearby. "Mr. Brant's son, Riley."

"His son! Then why are there bars on the windows?"

"Riley wasn't quite... right. He had something called schizophrenia. He always thought that someone was out to get him. As time went by, he got more and more withdrawn and one night he killed himself. He just took a pillow case and knotted it around his throat. Such a shame, he was only seventeen. Mr. Brant was so upset when it happened."

Richie felt a shiver run down his spine. "Brant had a seventeen year old son called Riley...? And he killed himself...? Where...? Here...? In this room?" He stopped to take a deep breath, trying to bring his voice back down an octave where it belonged.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. It happened several years ago."

"No.... no, that's all right. Um... why don't we go get my bag."

Richie stashed his bag at the back of the closet, out of sight. He was still bothered by Mrs. Mitchell's story and the fact that Brant had called him Riley several times.

As he reached the head of the stairs, he saw Brant at the front door. He stopped and watched as the man pulled something out of his pocket and inserted it in the slot at the top of the electronic panel. He heard a buzzing sound and saw the red light change to green. Brant opened the door and walked out, letting the door swing shut behind him. A moment later the light turned red again.

This was his chance. Richie headed for the study and couldn't believe his luck when the lock glowed green. He quickly went inside and headed for the desk sitting in the center of the room. He went around it, sat in the chair and reached for the phone. A picture on the desk caught his attention and his hand changed direction. He stared down at the photo, unable to believe his eyes. The picture was of a teenager with light colored hair and blue eyes. They could have been brothers. With a shudder, he put the picture down and once again reached for the phone.

In his nervousness, he misdialed twice. Richie took a deep breath, and slowly counted to ten before trying again. This time he heard ringing on the other end of the line.

"Hello." A softly accented voice came across the line.

"Tess..." Richie had to stop to swallow the lump in his throat. He closed his eyes against the burning sensation that filled them. "Tessa, it's me... Richie."

Silence.

"Tessa? Tessa? Are you there?"

"She can't hear you."

Richie's eyes flew open and he stared at Mitchell, who had one finger on the telephone hook, disconnecting the call.

"C'mon, kid, you're going to your room. Mr. Brant will deal with this when he gets back." He forcibly dragged Richie from the chair and up to his bedroom.

Richie paced around the room. If only he hadn't taken the time to look at the picture. If only he hadn't choked up when Tessa answered the phone. He wondered how much of his words she had heard--if she realized that it had been him. Not that it would have done a lot of good.

When he heard the door buzz open, Richie turned to face Brant. The look on the man's face was intimidating.

"It's time you learned who's in charge here, Richie. I will not stand for this type of disobedience. You will be punished for trying to use the phone. We'll see how willing you are to obey the rules after you've gone a day without food. This will not excuse you from your workouts, though. You just will not be allowed to eat. And to strengthen the punishment, you will join me at each meal--and that means dressed appropriately, too." Brant spun on his heel and left the room.

*****

Tessa tried to keep busy moving merchandise around on the shelves to hide the gaps caused by the missing antiques. Her mind kept going back to the interrupted phone call the night before. It had been so brief but she would have sworn that it was Richie's voice on the other end. But why would he have hung up immediately? The only answers that she had come up with didn't make her very happy.

The first possibility was that Richie didn't want to talk to her--that he had hoped that Duncan would answer the phone. When she had answered, he might have panicked and hung up. This idea caused a strange pang near her heart. The only other possibility was that he was caught making the phone call and that bothered her even more.

Of course, when she had told Duncan that she thought it had been Richie on the phone, he had just dismissed the whole idea. He insisted it must have been a wrong phone number and they had hung up when they realized their mistake. He hadn't convinced her though--or maybe he had been trying to convince himself. Now, each time the phone rang, she held her breath while Duncan answered it, hoping that it would be the missing teenager.

Tessa was so deep in thought that she never heard the front door opening and she jumped a foot when a male voice spoke.

"So, I was right all along," Mr. Giles gloated. "I warned you not to trust Ryan, but you didn't believe me. Well, I hope you're sorry now."

Tessa took a deep breath, trying to control her anger. "We don't know if Richie was the one who stole the antiques."

"Well, based on the news report, the police are convinced," he sneered. "If it hadn't been for me, you might have lost a valuable customer thanks to that hoodlum."

"And who would that be?"

"Hasn't he come back yet? I never got his name but he was in the shop when I checked up on Richie on Saturday. He came over to talk to me after he left here. We had a long chat. He said that Richie had been obnoxious to him and he wasn't about to buy anything from that kind of person. I apologized for you and explained about how you were trying to reform the kid. He really wanted to buy that Faberge egg you have, so he wanted to know when you two would be back."

"And I suppose you told him?" Duncan's voice startled Tessa again. She glanced over her shoulder at him and was almost shocked at the anger showing on his face.

"Well, of course I did. I didn't want you to lose his business."

"So, you told a total stranger that we weren't going to be home until the next day? And gave him Richie's background? Did you tell the police this?"

"Why would I tell the police? He was very well dressed and was driving a Cadillac. Obviously, he wasn't a thief..." His voice trailed off as Duncan approached him.

"Did you get a license plate? Can you describe this man? What color was the car?" Duncan started firing questions at the other man.

Mr. Giles stammered out a description. "I didn't get his license plate number though."

"Well, it's not much to go on," Duncan said, almost to himself. "And in the future, I'd appreciate it if you didn't pass out information about Richie or us." Duncan glared at him.

"I don't understand why you are taking this attitude... I was just trying to help."

Tessa stepped into the fray. She threaded her arm through Mr. Giles' and escorted him to the door. "Of course you were. We don't know what we would do without neighbors like you," she said insincerely.

Mr. Giles beamed back at her before he turned and left.

Tessa went over and wrapped her arms around Duncan. "What do you think that means?"

"It could just be a coincidence, but as a rule, Richie isn't obnoxious to customers--at least not anymore. It sounds like, whoever it was, he was trying to get information about when there would be people in the shop."

"So Richie went out, came home and found the place robbed..."

"Possibly. The police just called. There was another antique store robbed last night. They only took a few items, but all of them were high priced and easy to sell--just like here. They may have a lead this time. Someone walking their dog reported seeing a van parked by the store and they remembered part of the license plate because it was the same as their initials."

"I hope they find whoever did this. I'll make sure that the news station and the paper proclaim Richie's innocence. Hopefully, he'll see that and come home."

"I hope so, Tessa." Duncan paused for a moment "*If* he can come home."

"What do you mean?"

"I keep thinking about the crystal. If Richie left voluntarily, why did he leave it behind? What if it was blood on the cord? And if what the police said about the fingerprints is true, Richie had to be here when they came to rob the place. That meant he could identify them."

"You don't think that they would..." Tessa shuddered, unable to say the word.

"I hope not, Tessa." Duncan wrapped his arms around her tightly. "All I know is that I haven't been able to find him. I don't know what else to do except report what Giles told us."

****

Richie tried to sit quietly--something that was difficult for him to do under the best of situations--and this wasn't one of them. Besides being encased in a penguin suit again, his body ached even more tonight from the rough workout he'd received that day. And to top it off, he was starving to death.

Breakfast hadn't been too bad. Richie had drunk several large glasses of water before coming downstairs so that his stomach wouldn't growl. Lunch had been more difficult. But dinner--this was true punishment. He'd gone for longer without meals before--when he'd been trying to survive on the streets. He didn't remember it hurting this bad. He couldn't believe that six weeks of regular meals would have caused him to forget this empty gnawing feeling in his stomach.

Whenever he squirmed in his chair, Brant would look at him with those dark eyes and tell him to sit still or else. Richie was afraid to find out what 'or else' meant. He could only try to keep still and watch every bite of food that Brant put in his mouth. The wonderful smell of the roast beef and hot rolls was enough to drive him crazy. For a brief moment, Richie debated grabbing some food and running. He could have it eaten before they caught him. Only the fear of what his next punishment would be kept him from doing it.

Finally, the torture was over. Mitchell appeared from the kitchen area and marched Richie back up to his room and locked him in again. The teenager quickly climbed out of the tuxedo and put on some comfortable sweatclothes before collapsing onto the bed. He turned on the TV but it seemed like every commercial was about food and he finally turned it off to escape the constant reminder of just how hungry he was.

He wondered what Tessa and Mac were doing right now. Probably eating. Richie groaned at the thought. His mind refused to stay off the subject. Maybe they were worrying about him.

He heard the buzzing sound that indicated the door was unlocking and sat upright, waiting to see who it was. Maybe it would be Mrs. Mitchell... Maybe she'd sneak him some food... After all she'd said that he was a nice boy and you don't starve nice boys...

But it wasn't her, it was Brant and he was carrying a video tape. "I have something here that I think you should see," he said.

Richie didn't like the gloating look on Brant's face so he wisely kept his mouth shut.

Brant went over to the TV and VCR, turned them both on and popped the tape into the machine. "One of my... associates sent this to me. This was on last night in Seacouver." He pressed the play button and stood back to watch Richie's reaction.

"...police are looking for an eighteen year old man, Richard 'Richie' Ryan, in connection with an antique store robbery yesterday. The teenager was employed at the store and is believed to have stolen over $100,000 worth of antiques while the owners were out of town." Richie's last mug shot flashed up on the screen. "If you have seen this person, please contact your local police. In other news..." Brant hit the stop button.

"Everyone thinks you robbed the store--just like I told you. It's time you accepted your new life here." Brant pulled the tape from the machine and left the room.

Richie fell back on the bed again. Hot tears stung his eyes and he pressed his fingers against them, trying to quell the urge to cry. What had he expected? With his record, Mac and Tessa were sure to believe that he had done it. He curled up into a tight ball of misery and tried to escape into the forgetfulness of sleep.

******

The next morning, Mitchell came to let Richie out of his room. "C'mon, Ryan, time for your morning swim."

Richie didn't move from the chair where he was sitting, staring out the window at the early morning darkness. "No."

"What do you mean--*no*?"

"I mean no. I'm not going to play his game anymore." Unable to sleep because of the gnawing hunger pains, Richie had spent the long night thinking about his predicament. Cooperating hadn't gotten him anything but sore muscles. It was time to try something else.

"No laps, no breakfast. That's what Mr. Brant said."

Richie swallowed heavily. Right now his stomach felt like it was filled with knives but he had to stick to his resolve. Surely they wouldn't let him die just to prove their point. "I know."

Mitchell strode over and yanked Richie to his feet, ignoring the hiss of pain from the teenager. "Mr. Brant said for you to swim--you're going to swim. Now, either change into your swimsuit or you can swim in your pajamas." He shoved the youth towards the dresser.

Richie regained his balance and stood there, looking defiantly at Mitchell. One hand rubbed his upper arm where he had been grabbed.

"Fine. Swim in your pajamas. It doesn't make any difference to me." Mitchell grabbed Richie once again and dragged him down to the pool area and tossed him into the deep end.

Richie swam down to the shallow end and stood up. "Now what?" he asked staying in the middle of the pool where Mitchell couldn't reach him.

"SWIM!" Mitchell yelled back.

Richie crossed his arms over his chest. "Make me," he said belligerently.

Finally, Mitchell gave up and left the room. Richie climbed out of the pool and padded back to his room, uncaring that he dripped water the whole way. He took a quick shower and then dug his bag out of the closet and put on the oldest pair of jeans and T-shirt that he could find. Checking the door, he found it still unlocked and headed downstairs.

The next stop in Richie's rebellion was the kitchen. Ignoring the protests of Mrs. Mitchell, Richie raided the refrigerator. A brief search through cabinets found him everything he needed and soon he was gulping down a roast beef sandwich and a large glass of milk. He noticed Mrs. Mitchell leaving the room and knew exactly where she was headed.

Halfway through his second sandwich, Richie looked up and saw Brant storming across the kitchen with Mitchell trailing behind. There was no sign of Mrs. Mitchell. The furious looks on the men's faces almost made the youth regret his decision to stop cooperating, but Richie stood his ground.

"What is the meaning of this?" David snarled as he came to a stop in front of Richie.

"I was hungry, so I fixed myself something to eat," Richie snapped back.

"You know the rules. No laps, no breakfast." With a sweep of his hand, Brant sent the remaining portion of the sandwich and the glass flying off the table.

Richie shrugged and went to the refrigerator, pulled an apple out and bit into it defiantly.

"I won't have this!" David screamed as he advanced on the youth. "You'll do as I say, Riley. I'm your father and you *will* obey me!"

"My name is *Richie*! And you are *not* my father. Your son killed himself. And with a father like you, who could blame him!"

With an inarticulate cry, Brant back-handed Richie across the face, sending the youth reeling back into the wall behind him. The irate man followed, grabbing Richie by the shirt and slamming him up against the wall. The youth froze in place as he felt Brant's right hand move to encircle his throat. Richie knew that all his captor had to do was squeeze and the teenager's air would be cut off. He was sure that Mitchell would do nothing to stop this madman so it was up to him. He jerked his knee up and hit Brant in a very delicate spot. With a sharp groan, the man released Richie and backed away.

"Mitchell, take him to his room and see that he stays there," Brant finally choked out.

Richie found himself being towed through the house again by Mitchell. Once inside his room, he collapsed on his bed and gave up trying to hide his fear. For a moment there, he had been sure that Brant had been about to kill him. Making those remarks about his dead son hadn't been a very smart move to make. Now he could only wait to see what happened next. At least he had managed to get something to eat, but he was still hungry.

Thirty minutes later, he heard the door buzz and looked up. Mrs. Mitchell came into the room carrying a tray, while her son stood by the door. "Mr. Brant told me to bring you breakfast," she said, setting the tray down on the bed. With a disapproving sniff, she turned and left.

Before the door had closed behind her, Richie was digging into the food.

******

David watched Richie play pinball from the monitor in his office. He had spent the better part of the morning watching the teenager. Somehow, he had lost control of the situation and that made him very upset. His original plan had been to make Richie understand the futility of resistance. Once that had been accomplished, there wouldn't have been any need to keep the youth locked up at all. Now, it would take more than threats to make Richie obey.

There was only one thing that he could think of to do. Kill Richie. When the teenager revived, he would explain The Rules and The Game and all about Immortality. Richie was smart--he'd understand that he wouldn't stand a chance in The Game without David's help. Once again, he'd have his loving, obedient son back--forever.

The first thing he had to do was to give the maids the day off and get the Mitchells out of the house. While they suspected that he was different, they didn't know the whole truth. He didn't want them to witness Richie's death. Maybe it would be best if they were gone overnight. It could take some time to tell the youth about The Game.

David opened the secret panel behind the bookcase and went into his treasure room. He looked over his array of weapons before picking out an 18th century stiletto. It was the perfect choice. A quick stab into Richie's heart and it would be over. Clean and efficient.

*****

Duncan and Tessa walked up to the desk at the police station. "Sergeant Powell asked us to come in and identify some property that may belong to us," Duncan said after he gave the policewoman their names.

"I'll let him know you are here. Please have a seat." The officer waved towards some benches against the wall.

Ten minutes later, Sergeant Powell showed up and escorted them to a nearby room. Inside they found several tables filled with antiques. Duncan and Tessa carefully looked through the items and pointed out those that belonged to them. Another officer wrote down the tag number on each piece before moving it to another table. After they were through, the Sergeant led them back to his office.

"So you found the thieves?" Duncan asked.

"We know how to do our job, Mr. MacLeod. With the partial license plate we got, we were able to track the van to a local company here. When we raided their warehouse, we found it filled with stolen property. There have been a series of antique store robberies all over the state and they used the warehouse as a clearing area. We don't think we have everyone in the ring yet but we're still looking."

"What about Richie?" Tessa asked.

"We haven't found any proof that he was part of this. In fact, one of the robberies occurred when Ryan was locked up in jail here--the night he tried to rob you. Therefore, we have dropped all charges against him." Powell opened his desk drawer and pulled a small plastic bag out of it. "We don't need this any more."

Duncan took the bag and saw that it contained Richie's crystal. "So what are you doing to find Richie?"

"Nothing. If you want to, you can file a missing persons report. But without any evidence of foul play, there won't be an active search for him. It's our opinion that he fled because he thought he was going to be blamed for the robbery."

"I wonder how you came up with that idea," Tessa said sarcastically. "What about the stain on the cord? Was it blood?"

"Yes, it was. But that's not enough proof."

"Fine. I'd like to file a complaint against Richie. When he left..." Duncan paused while he thought madly. "... he stole some personal items from us--some clothes and CDs. We weren't going to say anything because the antiques were more valuable but since he didn't take those..."

"Duncan!" Tessa protested.

The Highlander grabbed her hand and gave it a warning squeeze. "I know we talked about forgetting this, Tessa. But I don't think we should."

"Very well," Powell sighed. "Let's get the paperwork done."

Tessa waited until they had gotten back to the T-bird before exploding. "Why did you do that, Duncan?"

"Listen, Tessa. They were going to stop looking for Richie. This way, they'll keep on trying to find him. We can always drop the charges later and say that we were mistaken."

Tessa smiled and leaned over to kiss Duncan's cheek. "I love you."

*****

Richie flipped through the TV channels, trying to find something to take away his boredom. So far this afternoon, he had watched a talk show where two men demonstrated their skills for hypnotizing girls they met into having sex with them. He wondered if he could do it. If he ever got out of this mess, maybe he'd read up on hypnosis.

He'd watched cartoons for several hours but now he could only find news. He glanced at the clock. There was still an hour until dinner--assuming that he got dinner. A quick glance at the window showed that it was already dark outside. Feeling chilly, he grabbed a sweatshirt from his bag and put it on.

The sound of the TV drowned out the noise of the unlocking door. His first indication that someone had come in was when he heard his name called. He looked over at the door and saw Brant standing there with a strange expression on his face. It gave him the creeps.

"What do you want now? I'm not going to work out or swim or anything like that," Richie announced defiantly even as he felt his breathing and heartbeat speed up in fear.

Brant walked over to stand at the side of the bed, looking down at Richie. "No, that's not why I'm here. I have something to show you. It's a surprise and I think you're going to like it. Close your eyes for a moment while I get it ready."

"No way, man! If you have something to show me, just do it."

Without saying anything else, Brant's arm flew up and then down towards Richie. The teenager barely caught a flash of metal and only instinct saved him. He threw himself towards the far side of the bed and rolled to his feet on the opposite side. Instead of sinking into his chest, the knife caught on the sleeve of his sweatshirt and ripped it open.

"What are you trying to do? Kill me?" Richie shouted angrily.

"That's exactly what I'm going to do. It will be much easier on you if you'd just stand still for a moment."

"You're crazy, man!" Richie watched as Brant stalked around the bed towards him. At the last moment, the teenager dived back across the bed and headed for the open door at a full run.

"Come back here, Riley!"

The teenager had almost reached the stairs when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Without thinking, Richie grabbed the hand, slid to a stop and flipped the older man over his shoulder in a move that MacLeod had taught him only last week. He watched in shock as Brant flew head first down the stairs, tumbling over and over again only to come to a rest at the bottom.

Richie slowly crept down the stairs, expecting the man to jump up and start after him again. It wasn't until he was two steps from the bottom and saw Brant's unblinking eyes that he realized the man was dead.

"Oh, God, I've killed him!" Richie struggled to keep his churning stomach from spewing forth. "It's bad enough that the cops think I robbed the antique store--now I've committed murder! I gotta get out of here." He rushed to the front door and frantically pulled at it, trying to get it open.

A few moments later, he calmed down enough to realize that he needed the keycard to get out--like the one Brant had pulled from his pocket the other night. Richie turned to stare at the dead body on the floor. No. There had to be a better way. Remembering the conversation from the first day, the teenager raced to the kitchen.

"Matches.... matches... there's got to be matches here somewhere," he muttered to himself as he pawed through the kitchen drawers, flinging the contents every which way. If he could start a fire, the doors would unlock. Finally giving up, he returned to the front door and the corpse lying beside it.

Taking a deep breath, he carefully searched through the pocket that was easily accessible while trying not to touch the body. Nothing. It must be in the other pocket. The one *under* the body. Swallowing furiously to keep the bile down, Richie reached out and tugged at the corpse so that he could get to the other pocket.

He scrubbed his hands on his jeans before reaching out again to search for the keycard. This time his fingers closed around the piece of plastic and he extracted it. In a flash, he was back at the door and running the card through the reader slot. An eternity passed before he heard the magic buzzing noise and he saw a green light showing above the panel. Yanking the door open, he made a mad dash for freedom.

Once outside, Richie discovered a BMW parked in front of the house. Not believing his luck, he ran to it and climbed in. A few moments of work under the panel and the engine kicked to life just as he saw Brant coming out of the door after him.

"No! It can't be. He's dead! I killed him!" Richie froze in shock. Just as Brant reached for the door handle, realization sank in. "Oh, God! He must be Immortal--just like Mac," Richie moaned. His foot hit the accelerator and the car sped down the driveway. He could see the closed gates ahead of him but he didn't slow down, just sent the car crashing through them.

Having no idea where to go, Richie made left and right turns at random spots. He caught a glimpse of another car's headlights behind him and increased his speed, certain that it was Brant after him. A few more turns but the other car was still back there and slowly gaining ground.

Richie almost lost control of the car going around the next corner when his right arm sent a stab of pain coursing through his body. He gave a small sob of relief when he managed to straighten the car back out again but he was too busy driving to take a look at his arm to see what the problem was.

He had to find a church somewhere. That's what Mac had said. Holy ground was sacred. Brant wouldn't be able to hurt him there. The teenager started to pay more attention to his surroundings as he drove, but he wasn't pleased with what he saw. Somehow, he had made it from the nice part of town to a much more rundown section.

Too busy trying to find a church, Richie missed the stop sign. Once again his instincts saved him as he slammed on the brakes to avoid crashing into another car. But this time his luck failed when another stab of pain shot through his arm and the BMW spun out of control and the back end of the car collided with a utility pole. The abrupt stop sent Richie's head thudding up against the window and for a moment he saw stars. He felt something trickling down his face and shakily put his hand up to brush it away. Looking down at his fingers, he noticed the blood and his eyes flew to the rear view mirror.

The shock of seeing blood run down his face from a cut along his temple kept him frozen in place until he spotted the headlights coming. Richie looked around for the car that he had almost hit and was disgusted to find out that it hadn't bothered to stop. He pulled himself from the car and looked around frantically, rubbing the blood from his face with the left sleeve of his sweatshirt. He started to run down the street but the car caught up to him. Knowing that there was no escape, Richie backed up against the building and waited for Brant to come after him.

The car kept going.

Richie heaved a sigh of relief. It hadn't been Brant's car after all. Maybe he'd lost him. He looked back down the street and saw another car coming and decided not to risk his luck again. He headed for the nearby alley and ducked down it.

Two blocks over and one block down, Richie found what he was looking for. St. Gregory's church. He ran up to the door only to find it locked. Unable to believe it, the teenager rattled the handle several times before he headed around the church to find the rectory. He pounded on its door, but it seemed to take forever before he heard the sound of the door being unlocked.

An older priest, somewhere in his sixties, opened the door a few inches and peered out. "What do you want?"

"I need help," Richie said. "Please! Let me in!"

"Go away. We don't want any trouble here!"

Richie looked at him in shock. "What?!"

"We don't have anything worth stealing any more. Go away!" The door started to swing shut.

"Wait a minute. I don't want to steal anything! I need help!"

The priest stopped closing the door and looked behind him. Richie could tell he was talking to someone but couldn't make out the words. He swayed a little on his feet and put a hand out to the door to brace himself. The teenager almost fell inside when the door suddenly opened. Only the quick actions of another man kept him on his feet.

Richie felt hands support and guide him into the living room of the rectory. Looking up, he found himself staring at a much younger priest--probably in his early thirties. He led Richie to the couch and gently pushed him to a sitting position.

"I'm Father John Duffey and this is Father Paul Foxen. What's your name?"

"Richie. Richie Ryan. You've got to help me! He tried to kill me!" The teenager's hands clutched at Father Duffey's.

"Calm down, son. Who tried to kill you?"

"There's an Imm... um... a man after me. He kidnapped me and pinned a robbery on me and when we got here he kept making me do all these exercises and then he tried to kill me and I thought I killed him but I didn't really because I couldn't and then I escaped but I crashed his car and I knew I had to get to holy ground because he can't hurt me here." Richie stopped to take a deep breath.

"It looks like you've lost a lot of blood." Father Duffey pointed to Richie's right arm. "You really need to see a doctor."

Confused, Richie looked down and saw the sleeve of his sweatshirt had turned a dark red. "Oh, man." His head swam around and for a moment he thought he was going to pass out. The knife must have cut him after all.

Father Duffey helped him lie down on the couch before going to fetch a cloth and some warm water. The priest carefully bathed Richie's face and arm. "It looks like your arm has stopped bleeding but you do need stitches. Let me take you to the hospital. I'll go with you and make sure that nobody harms you."

"I can't. I gotta stay on holy ground. That's the only place I'm safe." Richie tried to think. As the adrenaline rush started to fade, his arm and head started to throb in unison and it was hard to concentrate. The only thing he could think of to do was call Mac. He looked up at the young priest. "Do you have a phone I can use? I'll call collect so there won't be any charges. Please?"

"Who do you want to call?"

"I need to call Duncan MacLeod. He lives in Seacouver. He'll know what I should do." Assuming that he'd even talk to Richie. "Um... maybe you'd better say the call is from you. We... um... didn't part on very good terms and he might refuse the call if he knows it's from me."

Father Duffey assisted Richie to his feet and led him to the rectory's office. The priest asked the teenager for the phone number, writing it down as Richie recited it, and proceeded to place the collect call. A moment later, he hung up. "I'm sorry. There's no answer."

"Oh, man. What do I do now?"

"You go to jail. That's him, officers."

Richie looked up in shock at the office door. Father Foxen stood there with two police officers behind him.

"I heard him say that he tried to kill someone and that he stole a car."

"This boy came to us for help," said Father Duffey. "Why did you call the police?"

"He's obviously a gang member. Look at his clothes. We don't want that kind of trouble here."

"What's your name, kid?" one of the officers asked.

When Richie didn't answer, Father Duffey told them.

"We just got a call on you. Seems you stole someone's Beemer. We found it just a few blocks away from here. You're under arrest." The officer read Richie his rights and reached for his handcuffs.

"He's been hurt. He needs medical attention," Father Duffey insisted.

The officer looked at Richie's arm closely. "Sure, Father. We'll take him down to Memorial hospital first thing." Instead of cuffing Richie's hands behind his back, he cuffed them in the front. "Let's go, kid."

Father Duffey walked with Richie out to the police car. The youth hadn't said anything since the police officers had shown up. Feeling the need to do or say something to offer comfort, the priest searched his mind for an answer. "I'll try to get hold of your friend, Richie, and let him know what's happened," he finally said.

Richie threw him a grateful look before he was placed into the squad car and driven away.

Father Duffey watched the car until it disappeared around a corner. He went back inside to find a self-righteous Father Foxen awaiting him.

"You should never have let him in here. You never know what those gang members will do. Why, we both could have been murdered."

Father Duffey shook his head. "I thought we were supposed to help those in need." He went back to his office and picked up the phone again. An hour later, he finally succeeded in reaching Duncan MacLeod. "Mr. MacLeod, you don't know me but thank you for accepting this call. My name is Father Paul Duffey and I had a young man here by the name of Richie Ryan who was trying to..."

"Richie! Richie's there? Is he okay? Can I talk to him?" The deep voice at the other end of the line interrupted him.

"He was here but the police took him away about an hour ago. He's been injured but I don't think it's critical. He needs stitches and he's lost a lot of blood but I think he'll be just fine."

"Why did the police arrest him?"

"He stole somebody's car and wrecked it. I think that's how he was he injured but he rambled on about someone being after him and trying to kill him. Richie seemed to think he'd only be safe on holy ground."

"WHAT! Where are you calling from?"

"Chicago. St. Gregory's church."

"Chicago! How did he get... never mind. Even if we get an immediate flight, it will still take us at least three hours to get there. Father Duffey, can I ask you a big favor? Will you go to the police station and make sure that Richie is okay and they keep him overnight. Tell them he's wanted by the police here in Seacouver for larceny charges."

"Of course. But I don't understand..."

"Trust me, Father. Please. I'll be there as soon as possible."

"Very well, Mr. MacLeod. I'll do as you ask."

"Thank you." Duncan hung up the phone and called Tessa's name. When she appeared from her workshop he told her to pack some bags as quickly as possible. In the meantime, he set about arranging transportation to Chicago. There would be plenty of time to tell her what he'd found out on the way to the airport.

*****

Richie sat silently in the back seat of the squad car. He kept trying to tell himself that going to jail was better than dying at the hands of that madman. So why didn't he believe it? Why did he feel like his life was almost over with? He'd met a few people who had done time back when he was on the streets and the stories that he had heard had been bad enough to curl his toes. And now he'd have the chance to find out if they were true.

He wondered just how many charges he was going to face. There was the robbery of the antique store--grand larceny. Grand theft auto. And don't forget murder. Well, that might be a little difficult to prove. Maybe attempted murder. Destruction of private property. Yep, he was going to be sent away for a very long time. If he was lucky, he'd get out of prison by the time he turned eighty.

He could hear the cops laughing already if he tried to tell his story. They wouldn't believe him any more than Sergeant Powell had believed his story about sword-carrying men in the antique store. They'd probably call for the men with the white jackets to come haul him away.

Richie sighed. He was in a no-win situation and no amount of fast talking was going to get him out of it. Even if he threatened Brant to reveal what he was, there was still the antique store robbery.

With a start, the teenager realized that the car had come to a stop outside the emergency room doors of a hospital. One of the officers opened the back door and helped Richie out of the car. While one officer went to check in, the other one escorted Richie to a row of chairs and pushed him into one of them. He finally got a glimpse of his name tag. Officer Davenport. When the other one joined them, his name tag said Officer Maloney.

Leaning back against the wall, Richie let his eyes close. He was so tired and wanted nothing more than to be back home in his bed in Seacouver. Maybe if he clicked his heels together three times and said 'there's no place like home' he would be miraculously transported there just like Dorothy had been. He'd wake up in his own bed and find out this was all just a bad dream.

When they finally called his name, Richie was surprised that more than forty-five minutes had passed. Officer Maloney went to the examining room with him and unfastened the cuffs once they got there. He was a young officer, maybe thirty years old, with red hair and green eyes. He had a kind face and nice smile, something the teenager didn't associate with cops. Maybe Maloney would believe him if Richie tried to explain.

A nurse came into the room. She asked a few questions--name, age, allergies--took his pulse and his blood pressure. She cut the sleeve of his sweatshirt back to expose the wound.

"How did this happen?" she asked.

"He was in a car accident," Maloney replied.

"No. That happened before the accident. I was cut by a knife," Richie explained. "It was just my face that got cut in the accident."

"Whose knife?" The officer dug out a notebook.

"David Brant's. He tried to kill me, but I got away. That's why I had his car."

Before the officer could ask any more questions a doctor rushed into the room. He and the nurse conferred quietly for a few minutes before the doctor turned to Richie.

"Hi, Richie. I'm Dr. Ross. I guess you've had a bad night, hmmm? Let's just take a look." The man quickly examined Richie's arm and then turned to the smaller wound on his face. "Are you having trouble with your vision, Richie? Seeing double? Do you feel sick to your stomach? Did you pass out?"

Richie replied no to the first three questions. "I don't think I passed out, but things got kinda blurry after I saw the blood on my sleeve."

"Hmmm." A light was flashed in Richie's eyes. "Do you have a headache?"

"Yeah," Richie muttered. "And my arm hurts too."

The doctor asked the teenager several more questions, looked in his ears, and made Richie move his head around, up and down. "Well, I don't think you have a concussion but you are going to have a beautiful black eye. We do need to clean the cut in your arm and stitch it up. As for the cut on your face, it doesn't need stitches. We'll just put a butterfly bandage on it. And we'll give you something for the pain."

By the time it was all over, Richie's head had stopped pounding, thanks to the pain pills he had been given. His arm was numb but he knew that it would start hurting again once that wore off. Officer Maloney had been given a packet of pain pills for later and instructions on monitoring Richie's condition throughout the night. The final instructions were to keep the wound dry for two days.

Once again, Richie was cuffed and taken back to the squad car. The next stop was the police station. The teenager had been through this all before, so nothing came as a surprise until he was being led away to be booked.

"Riley, there you are! Thank goodness you're all right!" David said as he rushed up to the youth. "I've been so worried."

"Keep him away from me!" Richie shouted.

"It's all right, Riley. I'm your father and I'm here to take you home."

"No way, man. I'd rather go to jail."

Another man rose from a chair and joined the group in the hallway. "Richie, are you all right? Did you get medical attention?" Father Duffey asked.

Richie nodded his head.

By this time a crowd had gathered and Officers Maloney and Davenport took Richie and Brant to an interrogation room to try to figure out what was going on. Father Duffey insisted on going along.

Officer Davenport warned each of them to keep quiet while the other one was speaking. He turned to Brant and asked for his side of the story.

"My name is David Brant and this is my son, Riley. He is schizophrenic and occasionally thinks that somebody is after him. This time he got away and took my car, so I reported it stolen. I dropped all the charges when I heard you had found him. I just want to take my son home. Usually, once he's back in his room, he calms down a lot. I do have some papers from his doctor explaining his condition." David handed them to Officer Davenport.

The officer quickly scanned them. "Well, this does explain a lot. Okay, kid, your turn."

"I'm not his son! My name is Richie Ryan. *He* arranged for two of his goons to rob the antique store where I work in Seacouver. *He* had them kidnap me and brought me here to Chicago against my will because I remind him of his son. Tonight he tried to kill me. That's how my arm got cut up. I got lucky and managed to get away."

"This is all nonsense, officers," David claimed. "He's obviously suffering from delusions. It's not uncommon with people in his condition. Why, just last month, he thought he was the President of the United States. You have no reason to keep him here since I've dropped all charges. I'm going to take my son and go home. Now please undo the handcuffs."

"I'm not going anywhere with you. You are *not* my father."

"Officers," Father Duffey jumped into the fray. "I talked to a Duncan MacLeod tonight and he asked me to inform you that Richie here was wanted in Seacouver on larceny charges. Maybe you should check with the police there."

"That sounds like a good idea," Officer Maloney said. "I'll be right back." He left the room quickly.

Richie sat there numbly. Now that he had confirmation that Mac believed that he had stolen the antiques, it felt like the world had dropped out from underneath him. "Did you really talk to Mac?" he finally asked the priest.

"Yes, Richie. He said he'd be here as soon as possible."

"And he told you that I had robbed him?"

Before Father Duffey could answer, Officer Maloney returned.

"There's an outstanding warrant for Richie Ryan," Maloney told his partner. "Their fax machine is broken so they can't send us a copy of his fingerprints but they promised to have them on the first flight out of Seacouver in the morning if it's not fixed by then. So I guess for now, we book Ryan on larceny charges."

"This is outrageous!" David snarled. "I'll have my lawyers here so fast, you won't know what hit you. You can expect a lawsuit for false arrest if you don't release my son immediately."

"I'm sorry, sir. Until the fingerprints say otherwise, we have to keep the boy here."

"You'll regret this," David warned as he stalked from the room.

"C'mon, Ryan," Officer Maloney said. "I need to get the paperwork finished and get you booked."

Once they had left the room, Father Duffey turned to the remaining officer. "I don't understand something," he said with a frown. "How come you didn't arrest that man? If what Richie said is true, Brant kidnapped him and tried to kill him and you just let him walk out of here."

"Until we know whether the kid is really Richie Ryan or Riley Brant, we don't want to do anything. This may all be a figment of the kid's imagination and he may have gotten hurt in the car crash and not by a knife. David Brant is a very powerful man in this town. We wouldn't want to arrest him and find out we were wrong. As it is, we're walking a fine line by keeping the kid here. Once we have the fingerprints, we can always pick up Brant later. For that matter, the kid could have made it all up to try to get out of the larceny rap back in Seacouver."

"I see. Thank you, officer." Father Duffey headed back to his church to offer a prayer for the boy's sake. The hurt that had shown in Richie's eyes had been almost painful to see and he knew that he would be haunted by them for a very long time. He could only hope that he had done the right thing.

*****

As Richie was being taken to his cell, he spotted a clock on the wall. He couldn't believe it was only nine o'clock. It seemed like days since he had fled the house. As the cell door closed behind him, the teenager collapsed on his bunk, glad he didn't have to share the cell with anyone else.

Everything was going to be fine, he tried to tell himself. MacLeod would come and take care of the Immortal and then he'd send Richie to prison. A tear slipped from beneath his closed eyelids, followed by another. He brushed them away impatiently. He hadn't cried in years, he wasn't going to start now. It was only because he was so tired and his arm was starting to hurt again. That's all it was. He was still trying to convince himself when he finally fell asleep.

*****

Richie was dragged from sleep by a voice calling his name. He looked towards the cell door and saw an officer standing there. "What do you want?" he mumbled.

"You have visitors. Let's go, Ryan. I don't have all night."

The officer led the youth to an empty interrogation room and left him there. On one wall, there was a mirror and it didn't take a genius to guess that it was two-way, allowing anyone in the next room to see him. Richie sank into one of the chairs by the table in the center of the room. Under the table, he clenched his fists tightly together, wondering who was on the other side of the mirror and what further punishment he had yet to endure.

He didn't have long to wait. He heard the door open again but didn't bother looking up to see who it was. He kept his eyes down, focused on his hands.

"Richie, are you all right?"

The shock of hearing Tessa's voice snapped Richie's head up. "I'm okay," he lied before looking back down at his hands again. "I didn't do it, you know. I wouldn't have stolen from you," he said in a very low voice that trembled.

A strong hand grasped his chin and forced him to look up into the Highlander's face. "We know that, Richie," Duncan replied with a warm smile. "We've been telling the police that ever since you disappeared."

Richie looked at him in shock. "Then why did you tell Father Duffey that I had robbed you?"

"I didn't tell him that. I said that you were *wanted* on larceny charges. In fact, the police have already recovered most of the antiques and they dropped the charges so I came up with more to keep the pressure on them to find you. Now that we have, I've had all the charges dropped and you are free to go. Of course, it helped that your fingerprint records finally came through and proved that you *are* Richie Ryan instead of this Riley Brant guy--whoever he is."

"I can go with you? Really?" Richie didn't know what to believe.

"Really," Tessa answered, sitting down in the chair next to Richie and putting her arms around the youth. "We've been so worried about you. We were afraid that they might have..."

Richie shuddered in her arms, hearing the unspoken words. "He almost did," he said before bursting into tears. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm crying."

"That's all right. Cry all you want. Neither of us are going to think less of you because of that. It's a natural reaction." Tessa tightened her arms around the teenager.

Richie buried his face in her shoulder and let the sobs come. He was dimly aware of Tessa lightly rubbing his back and of Mac's hand resting on his shoulder. Once it was done, he felt completely drained. "Can we go home now?"

"How about a hotel to start with?" Duncan said with a smile. "We'll go home tomorrow."

"Okay." Richie stood up.

For the first time since coming into the room, Duncan and Tessa got a good look at the blood-stained sweatshirt.

"Richie!" Tessa gasped. "What happened? How badly are you hurt? Have you seen a doctor yet?" She carefully pulled back the sweatshirt to reveal the white bandage covering his upper arm.

"It's okay," Richie reassured her. "The doc said I'd be fine. He did give the cops some pain pills though... maybe we should ask for them."

"I'll take care of it," Duncan said as he led them out of the room. "Why don't you wait by the front door."

*****

Once they had checked into a suite in one of the nicest hotels in town, Duncan had Richie tell them everything that had happened. It took almost an hour and by the time he was finished, Duncan could barely conceal his rage.

"He's an Immortal, Mac," Richie said. "I killed him and he just got back up again."

"I figured that out when Father Duffey told me you didn't want to leave holy ground. Did he ever say why he kidnapped you?" Duncan had a fairly good idea, but hoped that Brant had never revealed the truth to Richie. He wanted to keep the teenager unaware of his pending Immortality as long as possible.

"He kept going on about how he was going to train me for my future role in life but he never said what that was. Maybe it was to take over his business. But I think it was mostly because I reminded him of his son. He kept calling me by his son's name. It was spooky."

"I'm going to go talk to Brant now," Duncan said. "I want the two of you to stay here."

"Talk. Yeah, right. That will accomplish a lot," Richie said cynically.

Duncan placed his hands on Richie's shoulders. "Trust me, Richie. One way or another, I'll make sure he never comes near you again. You have my promise on that." He grabbed his coat and headed for the door.

"Be careful, Duncan," Tessa called after him before turning to face Richie. "Why don't you go to bed. You look exhausted."

"No. I want to wait for Mac to come back." Richie looked down in distaste at his clothes. Both the T-shirt and the jeans had blood stains on them. He had removed the sweatshirt as soon as they got to the hotel. "I want to take a shower but I don't have any clean clothes to put on," he told Tessa.

"I'll get you some underwear and a T-shirt from Duncan's suitcase and there should be a robe hanging in the closet. You can wear that and we can see about getting you some clothes first thing in the morning. What about your bandage? Are you supposed to keep it dry?"

"Oh... I forgot. Guess I can't shower after all." Richie sighed.

"If you're careful, you could take a bath," Tessa suggested. "Richie, are you feeling all right? Do you want me to call a doctor?"

"No. I'm okay--just tired." Richie took the underwear that Tessa had fetched from her bedroom before he slowly climbed to his feet and headed for his room. He turned back at the last moment. "Umm... Tessa.... no, never mind." He turned away.

"What is it, Richie?"

"No, it's all right. I don't want to cause any more trouble than I already have. I can wait."

"Richie, *you* didn't cause any trouble. You didn't ask to be kidnapped and dragged halfway across the country. Let me guess... you're hungry?" she said with a smile.

Richie nodded. "Yeah. I never got dinner tonight."

"You know what? Neither did I. I'll call room service. Now go clean up." She shooed him on to his room with her hands.

Richie had just returned to the sitting area when a knock sounded at the door. He felt a flash of fear, thinking Brant had found him. "Don't answer it, Tessa," he cried out. "It might be Brant."

"Don't be silly. It's just the food I ordered." To allay the youth's fear, she had him look through the peep hole. Once he had satisfied himself, she opened the door and let the bellboy wheel a cart into the room. After giving him a tip, Tessa closed the door and turned to Richie. "Here you go. Sit down and eat before it gets cold."

The teenager turned his attention to the food. He said very little as he ate and kept his eyes glued to his plate. Tessa sat across from him and the few times he did glance in her direction, she wasn't eating, just pushing her food from one side of the plate to the other.

When he had finished eating, Tessa took his hand. "Come sit down, Richie." After they had both settled on the plush sofa, she took both of his hands in hers. "Do you want to tell me what's bothering you?"

Richie sighed but refused to meet her eyes. "Tessa, was it true what Mac said? That you knew from the beginning that I didn't steal the antiques? I mean, everything must have pointed to me."

"I'll be honest with you, Richie, even though it may hurt. My first reaction was to blame you. But Duncan never believed it for a minute. It didn't take long for him to convince me, though. After all, the cash box was still there, and the police found your crystal and, while I know how much you *love* polishing the display cases, Duncan pointed out that nobody would spend all day cleaning only to steal things after closing."

Richie smiled at that. "I guess that would be pretty stupid. I don't blame you for thinking I did it. After all, you've only known me for six weeks and I don't exactly have the best record..."

"During those six weeks, you've never given me any reason to mistrust you. I was wrong to do so this time and I'm deeply sorry. Will you forgive me?"

"Sure, Tessa." Richie looked away. "I guess I really messed up this time, didn't I? You probably won't want me around the shop anymore."

"Richie! That's enough!" Tessa grabbed Richie's chin and turned his face so that he was looking directly at her. "*You* didn't mess up. And of course we still want you around the shop. Why do you think we came all the way here to Chicago? Just so we could kick you out once we got home? You have a brain, Richie, try using it."

There was a long moment of silence. "I don't know, Tessa," Richie said finally. "Maybe it got stolen too." Richie tried to keep a straight face but couldn't.

"Oh... you... You are impossible, Richie Ryan." Tessa wrapped her arms around the teenager and gave him a hug. "What's wrong?" she asked when she saw him grimace.

"It's nothing..." Richie stopped when Tessa gave him one of *those* looks that said she didn't believe him. He'd gotten a lot of those since he'd moved in. "Okay, my arm kinda hurts a little."

"When did you last take your pain pills?"

"I don't know. Before 9:00 'cause that's what time it was when they took me to my cell."

Tessa looked at her watch saw that it was almost 2:00. She got up to fetch the pills, read the instructions and then brought them back along with a glass of water. "It says you can have two of them every four hours so you can have another dose now."

Richie swallowed the drugs and leaned his head back against the sofa.

"Why don't you lie down here on the couch. You'll be more comfortable."

With a deep sigh, Richie complied.

*****

Duncan got out of his rental car in front of the mansion that David Brant owned. It hadn't taken him too long to find it, since he had seen the address listed on Richie's arrest form. The gates still hung precariously from their fastenings--another giveaway that this was the place. He did a quick check to make sure his katana was in its customary place and strode up to the door.

A familiar sense ran down MacLeod's spine. He didn't have to ring the doorbell. The door opened as he approached, revealing the waiting Immortal.

"I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he announced as he took stock of the athletically built man in front of him.

"David Brant. Are you here for me?"

"If I must."

"Then why?"

"I want you to stay away from Seacouver and Richie Ryan."

"Richie Ryan? Who's that?"

"The teenage boy you kidnapped from my antique store. The same one you kept here against his will until he stole your car and managed to escape." Duncan frowned. If he hadn't known better, he would have sworn that Brant had no clue who he was talking about. "He's under my protection and you'll have to go through me to get him."

"My son Riley stole my car... You have my son? If you harm him...."

"Your son is dead, Brant. Accept that."

"You killed my son? Noooo!!!!" With an anguished cry Brant raised his sword and rushed the Highlander.

Duncan drew his katana and barely parried the first stroke. Brant fought like a man possessed, his strong blows jarring the Highlander's arms over and over. It took all his strength and energy to defend himself. Slowly, the Highlander retreated, moving away from the house and across the broad lawn.

Without warning, the lawn sprinklers suddenly came on, slowly drenching the two fighting Immortals as well as the grass. Duncan struggled to stay upright under the punishing blows despite the treacherous footing. One wrong step could cost him his head. And he wasn't fighting for just himself this time. Duncan knew that if he died, Brant would go after Richie again. And Tessa would be between them. The thought of the two of them being at the mercy of a madman like Brant, brought Duncan renewed purpose.

Bit by bit, the Highlander turned the attack until it was Brant's turn to be defending his life. Duncan's arms were starting to feel like lead weights and he wondered how much longer he could continue. Twice now, he had slipped on the wet grass and only a supreme effort of will and a quick contortion of his body had kept him on his feet.

Knowing that he had to end the fight soon, Duncan pretended to slip again hoping that Brant would take the opening. With a cry, the other Immortal lunged only to end up impaled on the Highlander's sword. As Duncan pulled his sword from Brant's body, the man crashed to his knees in agony. A final blow from the katana and Brant's broadsword went flying through the air to embed itself in the lawn ten feet away.

"There can be only one," the Highlander said as his katana severed his opponent's neck.

Stepping back, Duncan waited for the Quickening. As the lightening bolts surged through his body, Brant's memories of his wife and son assaulted his mind. He could feel the deep love that the man had felt for them and the overwhelming sorrow at their deaths. The final emotion that struck him was overwhelming joy as if Brant had joined his wife and son wherever they had gone before him.

Duncan collapsed to his knees when it was over. The memories of the other Immortal faded away, leaving only a strange feeling of peace. He sat there for a long time, feeling the gentle rain from the sprinkler system and watching it wash away all traces of the fight.

*****

Duncan quietly opened the hotel room door. Hopefully both Richie and Tessa were asleep since it was after 3:00. He came to an abrupt stop as he entered the sitting room, unable to believe his eyes. Tessa sat on the couch, head resting against the back, eyes closed. One hand rested on Richie's shoulder and the other cradled the teenager's head, nestled in her lap. She opened her eyes as if sensing his presence and smiled.

Duncan closed the distance between them and dropped a light kiss on her mouth. "Is he asleep?" he whispered.

Tessa nodded. "For almost an hour now," she whispered back.

"I'll help you slide out and he can sleep out here tonight."

"No, Duncan. I think we should let him know that you're back. If he should wake up and find himself alone..."

Recognizing the wisdom behind her words, Duncan lightly shook the youth. "Richie, wake up."

The teenager bolted upright. "What!?" He looked around frantically.

"Take it easy, Richie. Everything's all right."

"Mac! Did you..."

"Brant won't be back," Duncan assured him. "The police will probably think he left to escape prosecution. Now, why don't you go to bed and we'll talk about this later."

Richie nodded and climbed to his feet. At his bedroom door, he turned back. "Thanks, Mac," he said before going inside the room and shutting the door.

Duncan sank down on the couch and took Tessa into his arms.

"It's over now, isn't it?" she asked

"We'll need to file a police report. If we just left town, the police would get suspicious. Especially when Brant never turns up again. Then we can go home."

"Good. I can't wait."

"How did Richie seem to be handling this, Tessa?"

"He blames himself for the whole mess and seems to think we'll kick him out because of it. Hopefully, I've convinced him otherwise. Other than that, he seems a little bit dispirited, but that could just be from exhaustion. Maybe we should stay one more day and see some of the sights. I doubt that Richie has ever been to Chicago."

"That's a good idea, Tessa. Now, I think we need to go to bed too."

****

When Richie finally emerged from his bedroom much later that morning, Duncan and Tessa had been up for several hours. He found a package containing a new pair of jeans, shirt, sweater, and underwear waiting for him. Sitting on the top of the package was Richie's crystal mounted on a new leather cord.

"I thought you might be missing that, so I brought it along," Tessa said with a smile.

"Thanks, Tessa," Richie said, giving her a smile before disappearing back into his room.

Once dressed, they went out for brunch and ended up at the police station. With the support of Duncan and Tessa, Richie filed his police report and gave the officers details about where he had been held captive. "He still has my bag of clothes and I want them back," he insisted. "Some of my favorite CDs are in that bag too!"

When they were done at the police station, they went sightseeing. Richie's first choice was the Lincoln Park Zoo. From there, they went on to the Sears Tower. Duncan insisted on taking Richie to the Field Museum despite the youth's reluctance to go near anything that seemed educational. They had to drag him out three hours later, at closing time, while the youth kept protesting that he wanted to see the dinosaurs 'one last time.'

Duncan counted the day a success as he noted Richie's smile come out more and more frequently. The more the teenager smiled, the more exuberant he became. Hopefully, they could put this behind them once they returned home.

After dinner, they stopped at the police station. They were told that the police had searched Brant's house but there was no sign of him or the Mitchells other than evidence of a quick departure on their part. They returned Richie's bag to him and told them that they would get hold of the youth should they ever apprehend the fugitives.

Richie was quiet on the way back to the hotel and Duncan finally asked him what was wrong.

"Um... can we go one more place, Mac? Please?"

"Where to?"

"St. Gregory's church. But I'm not quite sure where it's at."

They stopped at the next gas station and got directions and soon they pulled up in front of the church. This time the doors were unlocked and Richie went inside the church. Duncan held Tessa back and let Richie approach the priest who was kneeling in front of the altar.

Father Duffey must have heard them come in because he quickly finished his prayer, genuflected and then rose. Turning around, his face lit up in a smile. "Richie, how are you?"

"I'm fine, thanks to you. If you hadn't kept trying to call Mac, I might have ended up dead. I just wanted to thank you for that, Father Duffey."

"So everything's going to be all right?"

Richie nodded and smiled. "Mac and Tessa are here now and everything's cool. We'll be going home tomorrow."

"I'm glad, Richie. I was worried about you."

Duncan and Tessa came up to them and Richie introduced them to Father Duffey. The two of them also thanked the priest for calling them before they said good-bye and headed for the car with Richie.

In the elevator on the way up to their hotel room, Richie turned to Duncan and Tessa. "You know what the worst part of this whole thing was?"

"No. What?" Duncan replied with a frown as the elevator doors opened.

"I had my first airplane flight and I slept through the entire thing!"

Laughter echoed through the hotel corridor.

The end.


End file.
